The Not-So-Secret Life Of An A Cup

And by secret, I mean completely obvious. After all, I gave up padded bras long ago. Not only were they horribly uncomfortable, they felt like false advertising. There is nothing worse than getting frisky with a gentleman caller and having him discover that when your bra comes off, your memory foam ta-ta's go with it.

At 30, being an A-cup is something I hardly ever think about. I could not have imagined writing an article about such a matter, but when I read that Denise Richards regrets getting breast implants, I got a lump in my throat the size of a Double D -- I had to say something. At 20, I was not nearly as confident in my chest size, so while these celebrities speak of breast implants they regret, I realize how easily I could have become one of them. Over a decade has passed since my body image issues were at their worst, so it's hard to imagine the emotional pain one goes through when deciding the solution is to stuff baggies of silicone inside your chest.

Well, I suppose it's not that hard to imagine. In 7th grade shop class I turned around to see the jocks giggling in my direction while they felt up a wall. Passing the magazine rack at my friendly neighborhood kiosk, my 13-year-old self would receive little validation that flat-chested women are sexy. The majority of magazine covers were plastered with bursting, nubile décolletage -- from car digests to Cosmopolitan.

I wasn't worried. It was middle school. I still had time. Girls in my grade would spring forth with breasted glory out of nowhere; surely my own transformation was just around the corner. It wasn't until age 19 that I accepted my cruel fate. Oh sure, I'd heard mythological tales of birth control-induced miracles, but I knew the score. Besides, by that time I was in college learning about beauty myths and media artifice. I realized breasts have become a simulacra unto themselves. The more we are presented with big breasts, the more big breasts appear -- not always in their natural form.

Recently, I came across two articles that thoughtfully discuss highly sexualized representations of the female body. In the comments section, several gentlemen suggest -- without irony, I fear --that flat-chested women should refrain from expressing their opinions. Here are three examples, pulled from the comments section of this article and another.

While this sample group is small, I'm sure it wouldn't be difficult to find hundreds of similarly enlightening sentiments after a few breezy Internet searches. For real, men? I am not permitted to discuss my feelings on the subject of female body representation because my lack of cleavage inhibits my ability to form legitimate opinions? Is this an actual counterpoint you are making? This begs the question: were I truly jealous, would I not go out and buy a set?

For the record, I believe that depictions of sexuality that embrace the beauty of the human form can be a wonderful thing. My concern is that most of these depictions are of women who highlight an extremely narrow idea of what our society deems attractive. But I call your bluff, society! For I know that what we salivate over in public and what arouses us in private is not often one in the same. So commenters, can I get a witness for the dimpled booties? The concave behinds, the wide load hips, the shapeless boyish builds, the muffin tops, the six-packs, the jiggly bazooms, and yes, let's hear it for my girls, the tiny two.